


A Glass of Wine

by TheDarkFlygon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Fear of Death, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Paris (City), Shooting, Wine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: This isn’t just some annoying joke done by street kids bored on a Friday evening. This is a shooting, in the middle of a usually calm street. This is a shooting. The bullets and glass shards drown out the screams of civilians passing by. He’s not used to shootings, and he’s a little scared about it.(or: I wanted to write down an angsty piece of backstory, and it may offense people because Paris attacks)





	A Glass of Wine

**Author's Note:**

> To my current French teacher, whose witness account of the attack served as the main inspiration for this story.
> 
> Disclaimer. This is about a sensitive subject, and I am sorry if I manage to offend anyone with this piece of fiction. Can't exactly say "this is a work of fiction, any resemblance to real life people is fortuitous" because, well, Florian is a thing. A typically PDV thing. But I swear this story is entirely fictional and that all characters are just that. Characters. Yes, I know this can be ambiguous because I've been downright asked if I wanted this shit to happen. I don't. And this story is set in 2015 so I wouldn't have wanted that to happen anyway.   
> I don't live in Paris. People who know me know I went there like twice in my life, both times I was young enough not to remember much. I live in the North, and the sole reason why I have Parisian characters of all things (François included) is because PDV is basically a butchered version of my real life so I actually write about characters derivated from real life people. Is it weird? Yes.  
> I lived through the Paris attacks from behind a computer screen. Retweeted countless Portes Ouvertes posts. Kind of like I saw everything unfold without actually being there.   
> It's a weird time to "write" about the Paris attacks (considering PDV isn't meant to be real life France anyway, or else I would have a lot more issues than being faithful to a terrorist attack), but thanks to some stupid shenanigans at school, I somehow got to know about the witness account I mentionned earlier. I didn't really read it for the topic. I read it for the writer, and boy, I didn't get disappointed.
> 
> I usually don't put up such long disclaimers, but I'm afraid this story could get more traction than my usual sickfic garbage. Considering the sensivite topic matter, I prefer preventing to healing.

This isn’t just some annoying joke done by street kids bored on a Friday evening. This is a shooting, in the middle of a usually calm street. This is a shooting in the middle of Paris. The bullets and glass shards drown out the screams of civilians passing by. He’s not used to shootings, and he’s a little scared about it.

Everybody in the pizzeria is hidden under the table. Crouching like morons, fearing for their lives. He’s afraid himself, just a bit. Everything is tainted in wine. The bottles and glasses containing it got broken by bullets. Maybe lost bullets. Maybe precise bullets. He’s unable to tell.

 

Inside the pizzeria, nobody’s speaking. At best, there’s groans. People creeping to the cave underneath them. He can see more and more shards on the ground. A quick glance at his friends reveals some of them got slightly injured. It’s just scratches. All that red… must be wine. The smell doesn’t fool him. A new wave of shards fly to them. Right onto him.

His entire right side hurts. He’s sure at least one shard is sharply inserted into his chest. His arm is filled with glass. He has to bit his lip not to scream. He has to remain silent. They could find them otherwise. He doesn’t want to be spotted. He’s not ready to die yet.

 

Footsteps. Maybe the waiter’s. Maybe the policemen’s. Maybe the shooters’. He doesn’t dare to say anything. He’s heard bullets don’t hurt if they’re fatal. It may be a painless death. He sure hopes so. He didn’t plan on dying today, but if it was to happen, then he would be ready.

Then a weird sound. Rings to his ears. From his right. Stops suddenly around him.

It hurts.

 

He chokes back a scream. Grits his teeth. It hurts. So badly. Like his side was on fire. His friend turns to him. Tries to ask him if he’s alright. He supposes. It’s hard to tell. The noise of glass and bullets drown everything. He’s all painted in red. The smell is becoming a stench. It’s sickening.

The pain doesn’t subdue. Drowns out the shards. What was this thing? He just knows how badly it hurts. There’s something in his mouth. It doesn’t taste good. But somewhat familiar. He eventually can’t keep it in. It drips, drips, drips. Drips from his half-opened mouth.

 

Time is slow. Or quick. He doesn’t know. Can’t look at his watch. Else he’ll fall down. His arms are shaky. It still hurts so much. He’s starting to feel… dazed. The sounds of guns is getting quieter. As if they were getting farther. Farther and farther away.

They still go on and on. Quieter but still there. As if it was a trap. Alluring them all to be in line again. He is actually terrified. Terrified beyond his mind. He’s both ready to die but not ready do. Not before warning everyone. He doesn’t want them to see his face on the newspaper. On TV. On the Internet. He can’t die tonight.

 

Time passes. His vision is starting to get blurry. He’s tearing up. Puts a hand on his mouth. He has to be quiet. Then on his side, taking an almost foetal position. It hurts so badly. There is no words to express it. It just burns on and on. Getting worse every second passing. He still doesn’t have a clue as to what is it. And why it hurts so much. How it got there.

He feels lightheaded. Breathing is getting seriously difficult. He feels breathless. Retains a cough. Can’t keep it in forever. It’s that liquid again. Pouring from his mouth again. People aren’t looking at him. Good God. The bullets are mute by now.

 

People start getting up around him. On their knees, then on their feet, crouched. Some are entirely up. Eventually, his friends are up. So does he. He still feels nervous, as if something wasn’t over, when it has to be. There’s no shooting sounds anymore.

“Buddy, it’s time to get out of the table…” says a hand given to him.

He takes it and gets up, albeit with some difficulty. He’s still shaken and shaking from everything that just unfolded.

 

“Hey, guys, everyone alright?” asks Henri.

His voice is muffled. Actually, every sound is muffled… Why is everybody whispering? Are the shooters not so far from them?

“Yeah, except I’m drenched in wine and that I think I cut my two elbows” deadpans back Christian, looking at his reddened shirt.

“Same for me. Gonna change that once I’m home…” adds Eudes, getting his phone out. “At least that thing isn’t dead.”

 

He rubs his eyes from under his glasses, before taking them off to clean them. They’re all reddened and wet from the wine and his pain tears. His vision is still swimming, strangely enough, and it’s starting to worry him. The fact he can barely keep being up…

“Flo? Hey, Flo, what’s wrong buddy? You look completely outta it” says Henri as he waves his hand in front of his blurry eyes.

“Huh, right… I’m…. alright…”

He’s still breathless. That can’t be good at all. He presses his hand against his strange, burning side pain.

 

“Dude, you’ve got shards all over your arm! Guess Anna’ll be able to take care of that for you. She developed amazing nurse abilities since she’s been my sister, if y’know what I mean”

“Seriously, Florian, you don’t look good at all. Need a ride home?” Christian asks, his face too blurry to distinguish anything. He’s probably worried.

“I… I’m alright… Just… Hurting a bit from the shards…”

There’s something in his lungs. He’s sure of that. Maybe he should call an ambulance.

 

“Actually… Call an…”

“An ambulance? Yeah, I agree, you look awful” replies Eudes. “Guys, we should call our close ones and what not. They’re probably worried sick for us right now. Oh, and… call Annabelle for Florian. I’m not sure he can even hold his phone right now.”

He went for his phone in his jeans pocket, but before he could do so, he felt his eyes close on themselves. He leant against the wall. There’s something else in the air…

 

“Oh shit… Hey, buddy stay with us!” he hears Henri screams as footsteps come to him. “Call an ambulance, I think he got injured!”

“What tells you so?” Christian wonders openly. “It’s not that he doesn’t look about to pass out, but there’s no clear…”

“Guys… He’s been shot.”

 

He creaks his eyes open again. That smell was the smell of blood. Fuck. He’s bled out all this time, no matter how much he didn’t want to believe so. He’s convinced his shirt is open. Eyes fixated right on the source of his pain: a hole in his chest.

“So that was blood dripping from his mouth…” Christian reacts, sounding horrified.

“Yeah, s-see ya later… Gotta call an ambulance…” mutters Eudes on the phone.

 

Before he can guess what actually happened, he feels his legs giving up, and he falls forward, landing in a pair of arms before his vision turns entirely black and his consciousness fades away.


End file.
